


One Shot, Two Shot

by tristinai



Series: Bad Decisions [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gavin has questionable taste in men, Human AU, Jealousy, Kidnapping, M/M, Nines is a bit unhinged, Obsession, Poor Life Choices, Possessiveness, Russian Roulette, Size Kink, Smut with a hint of angst, background Hannor, bottom!Gavin, gangster!Nines, non-consensual use of chemicals to induce unconsciousness, past Convin, reed900, self destructive behavior, top!Nines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: After a few weeks of attempting to infiltrate a criminal drug ring, Gavin’s cover is blown and he finds himself forced to play a game of Russian Roulette with the notorious Nines.





	One Shot, Two Shot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NixObscura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixObscura/gifts).



> This fic is the result of a near year long obsession I’ve had with this one [Kpop song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg_4tbLnIOc) and an idea that’s been stuck in my head since November. Initially conceived as “Two idiots trapped in a room with a single gun between them,” I then thought of how fun it would be to add in a game of Russian Roulette and a blatant disregard for rickety warehouse furniture. The result is the most ill-advised attempts at flirtation but, hey, if I preface this with “Gavin’s not that smart and Nines is not that sane”, then I suppose it makes sense. 
> 
> Beta-reading credit goes to [NixObscura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixObscura/pseuds/NixObscura), the only one brave enough to offer given that I enjoy toeing the lines of consent with my writing and am not afraid to make the characters suffer. Without your encouragement, this story would be lost and forgotten, perhaps no more than a few hastily scribbled notes on paper. That’s why I have also gifted it to you. Hope you’ve enjoyed being subjected to the crazy things I come up with at 4 in the morning ;)
> 
> Please read all the tags before continuing.
> 
> Happy reading!

Gavin struggles against the firm grips pinning his arms at his sides, nearly tripping over his own feet as he’s forced into a poorly lit room. He cusses at the muscled men keeping him upright, vision spinning from the blow he’d received earlier. Everything had been going great: he’d been making headway with Kamski’s cronies, even had his first meeting days ago with the elusive crimelord’s second-in-command, Richard ‘Nines’ Stern, to discuss his future in their organization. Months of pouring over all of the DPD’s available information on the drug ring and crafting the perfect persona to go undercover and all that came to a crashing halt but an hour earlier when Gavin was jumped at his temporary flat.

 

“There’s no use struggling, Dex,” a smooth voice says, its dulcet tone sending a chill down Gavin’s spine. “Or, should I say, Detective Reed.”

 

Blood trickles from the gash on his forehead and there’s an odd ringing that hasn’t quite left his ears since he’s come to. He’s disoriented and at a complete disadvantage but it doesn’t keep him from scowling at the man who’s addressed him, even as he feels tremors of fear running cold in his veins. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Name’s Dex Stevens. I’m not some fucking nark.”

 

A perfect brow is raised, cool gray eyes regarding Gavin with an impish curiosity. At odds with the surety that he’s about to get a bullet in his skull and is two seconds away from pissing himself, the familiarity of Nines’ handsome face makes something hot curl inside the detective. Even in the shitty lighting, he can make out moles and freckles he had once traced with his own mouth, belonging to a similar face, in a relationship doomed almost as soon as it started and it’s bitter sting leaving open wounds that have never fully healed.

 

In a moment, he’s overwhelmed and Gavin can’t even be sure if it’s the unbidden desire or self-disgust that leaves him reeling. But then, Nines is laughing. It starts as a chuckle but crescendos into a full-blown maniacal guffaw, twisting his handsome face. The tension is so palpable in the room that Gavin even feels his captors tensing on either side of him.

 

“Cute,” Nines says, with a shake of his head. He smirks widely, leaning back against the singular table in the room, tilting his head just so that it makes a tuft of hair fall over his eyes and fuck, if it wasn’t for that psychotic grin on his face, he’d look just like Connor. “Your cover’s blown and yet you insist on pretending otherwise. Most men in your position would be on their knees and begging for their life at this point.”

 

Gavin grits his teeth, dropping his gaze so he doesn’t have to look at the sadistic prick. He barely made it through their last meeting as ‘Dex’ without finding his body reacting to honeyed words and veiled threats should he prove ‘disappointing’. Shamelessly, it took only ten minutes of briefly meeting with Nines before Gavin was dismissed and gunning for the nearest bathroom to relive the ache that had been straining in his pants throughout the encounter.

 

Much to his dismay, he learned the ‘hard’ way that Nines is just the right combination of everything wrong with Gavin’s fucked up sexual vices, sporting the face of the one man Gavin’s never quite been able to get over.

 

Dress shoes click on the ruddy warehouse floor as he hears the other man approach and it roars like thunder in Gavin’s pounding head. He flinches as he feels unblemished fingers tilt his chin upwards and he’s forced to stare into a pair of eyes that make him feel as if he’s been submerged in the icy waters of the Detroit river.

 

“Such a shame,” Nines says, his voice taking on an almost intimate purr. “I had wanted to see you _on your knees._ ”

 

Gavin shivers and he can’t say it’s from the fear of knowing he’s about to find out what happens when one double crosses Elijah Kamski.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you, asshole,” Gavin says, his throat feeling so dry, it makes his voice crack. “I don’t beg.”

 

A thumb brushes across his parched lip, the intimacy of the gesture enough to make heat splash across the detective’s face. There’s an odd hunger in the drug lord’s curious eyes and it ignites something in Gavin he’s failing to keep buried.

 

“They all do,” Nines says. He leans forward, his steady exhale falling like a whispered kiss on the outer shell of Gavin’s ear. The next word is a promise. “Eventually.”

 

In an act of betrayal, the detective feels his cock twitch in his jeans.

 

When Nines steps back, his eyes drink in the detective once more, as if secretly cataloging every detail about the man before him. It should be unnerving as fuck but there’s something about the way he looks at Gavin that makes the detective secretly relish the attention. Sadly, he realizes it’s been that fucking long since anyone’s looked at him like _that._

 

He winces when he feels the other man swipe at the wound on his forehead. As much as he wants to divert his eyes once more, he finds he’s unable to look away, watching with rapt attention as Nines pulls his thumb between his lips, cleaning away the blood.

 

And then, as if a sudden switch was flicked on, Nines’ expression hardens.

 

“Who did this?”

 

Everyone flinches at the sharpness of the gangster’s tone.

 

“I gave explicit orders to bring him to me unharmed.”

 

There’s a moment of thick silence between a voice shakily breaks it. The asshole gripping Gavin’s left shoulder.

 

“Y-you said to bring the rat in. Y-you said—”

 

“Unharmed,” Nines cuts in and though spoken at a lower decibel, it silences the excuse he’s receiving. His displeasure becomes more apparent as his brows furrow. “Or was I not clear?”

 

“N-no, boss, y-you—”

 

A shot rings through the air and Gavin’s yelp of surprise is drowned by a blood curling scream. Blood spatters across the floor from a wound in the foot of his attacker, who falls back against the nearby wall. As he moans and whimpers, Nines tuts in disapproval, minor irritation on his face as he gestures to the wounded man. A few more thugs enter the room, two of them grabbing the injured man roughly.

 

“Take him somewhere where he can reflect on his inability to follow a simple order,” Nines says, the hand not holding his revolver waving absently. “And let this be a lesson to the rest of you that mistakes will not be tolerated.”

 

They drag away the groaning man. All the while, Gavin’s gaping, open-mouthed, at the scene playing out before him.

 

“Apologies, Detective,” Nines says, as if just remembering that the officer is in the room with him, “reliable help is in short supply these days.”

 

“You’re fucking psychotic,” Gavin snaps.

 

He knows he’s playing with fire, poking at embers ready to burst into flames but he figures if these are his final moments, he’s going down in a blaze and on his own fucking terms. From what little he’s profiled on Kamski’s favorite, he knows Nines is unhinged and unpredictable and the bodies seem to pile up during the rare times the prick makes an appearance.

 

Best case scenario: the asshole will make it quick.

 

Worst case: they’ll make him feel every last second of his miserable life and someone will be fishing chunks of Gavin’s torso out of the Detroit River some weeks from now.

 

... _phck._

 

The gangster circles the table until he’s on the other side, his tailored suit hugging the muscles that ripple beneath the expensive fabric. From a brief glimpse of the taller man’s side profile, Gavin’s eyes catch on the curvature of that ass and it’s the shame of arousal that paints his face a deep shade of red that spreads to the tips of his ears. Nines doesn’t miss that look, if his knowing smirk is anything to go by.

 

He drops his coat on the back of his chair, sets his revolver carefully on the table, and nonchalantly begins to remove his cuff links.

 

“Bring him here.”

 

Gavin’s protests fall on deaf ears as he’s pushed forward and forced down into the chair across from Nines. He glares up at the gangster, who’s more focused on rolling up the sleeves on his dress shirt than on the undercover cop who’s been slowly trying to derail their operation.

 

“You gonna torture me now? Try and get me to squeal? I ain’t telling you shit!”

 

Nines unbuttons the collar of his shirt, pulling on the knot of his black tie so that it hangs loosely from his neck. Gavin’s eyes flick up to movement of those long, nimble looking fingers, gaze drawn to the hint of pale flesh peeking beneath crisp fabric. He tries to put up a facade of defiance but there’s one truth he’s unable to deny, even as Nines continues to regard him with mild disinterest.

 

He is so _fucked._

 

“You have quite the mouth on you,” Nines notes, bemusement in the quirking of his lips. He reaches for a manila folder, the only object besides the gun that’s on the table, propping a long leg up on his chair as he flicks through it. “I’d inquire on your lack of manners but I’d expect no less from someone raised in the system.”

 

Despite trying to keep up the pretense of control, Gavin feels his expression pale. “The fuck you talking about?”

 

Nines hums, flipping through another page in the folder he’s holding. “Gavin Elliot Reed. Born October 7th, 2002, to Elizabeth Reed, deceased. Father unknown. No next of kin. You spent your childhood in and out of foster care, committed petty crimes, spent two brief periods in juvenile detention before you chose to turn your life around and enter a career in law enforcement.”

 

The blood drains completely from the detective’s face and he shifts ever slightly, only to be shoved back down in his seat. “H-how the fuck do you know all that?”

 

“Graduated with high honors from the academy, an admirable work ethic with high ambitions,” Nines continues to list, the smile on his lips almost cruel. “You were a rising star in the precinct, expected to make lieutenant, in spite of multiple disciplinary actions. And perhaps you would have, too, had you not been outshined by your own partner.”

 

The drug lord carefully sets a few photos on the table in front of Gavin: one, taken some time before Gavin went undercover, of him outside his apartment building. Another, of the detective sitting in his car, back when he was surveying possible trap houses linked to Kamski’s drug ring. Another fucking one, dated just days before he took the alias ‘Dex’, of Gavin at the Starbucks near the DPD.

 

As the realization hits him, his blood goes cold: the prick’s been tailing him long before Gavin went undercover.

 

“The DPD aren’t the only ones with eyes all over the city,” Nines says, collecting the photos and placing them back in the folder. He sets it down on the edge of the table closest to him, grinning cruelly as he seats himself across from his shocked captive. “Tell me, Detective, how is...it’s ‘Lieutenant Anderson’ now, isn’t it? You must convey my regrets for failing to attend his wedding.”

 

“You don’t get to speak his name, asshole!” Gavin snarls, fighting against the arms restraining him in his chair. It does little to ease the sting of the one thing he’s spent the last few months trying not to think about, of all that those nights he’s thrown into this investigation to distract him from the gold band that’s made its home on his partner’s finger.

 

Nines tsks and the faux sympathy makes Gavin grimace. “I see Connor has still not outgrown his habit of throwing away perfectly good toys after he’s through playing with them. You must forgive my brother; he has poor judgment when it comes to assessing the quality of anything presented before him.

 

“I, however,” and Gavin is unable to duck away from the soft fingers that caress his cheek as Nines leans across the table, leering down at him, “have always known just how to take care of my brother’s cast offs.”

 

When the gangster sits back in his seat, Gavin deflates and releases a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. All the fight’s gone from him; and quite frankly, now that he’s forced to endure another reminder of how everything’s gone to shit for him recently, he’s starting to wonder if he even gives two fucks about making it through the night. “So, you gonna kill me or what, fucker? Or you gonna make me sit through a shitty monologue about how mommy and daddy Stern loved Connor more than your deranged ass?”

 

Two can play at this game: if Nines can sit there and quote Gavin’s shitty childhood to him, Gavin had just as much ammunition to remind the drug lord how far the apple fell from the tree.

 

For the first time since he’s come to, Gavin sees a chip in the gangster’s armor, a cold anger that percolates and surfaces through the neutral expression that falters on the drug lord’s face. But almost as quickly, it’s gone.

 

The gangster chuckles coldly as he reaches for his revolver.

 

“You mistake my intentions, Detective. And here I had thought I had made them obvious.”

 

He opens the gun’s chambers, empties the bullets into his hand. The poor light above the table flickers, casting longer shadows across the metal table.

 

“We’re gonna play a game.”

 

That...is the opposite of what the detective’s expecting.

 

Nines motions for one of his thugs and hands all but one of the bullets to him. Holding the bullet between his thumb and forefinger, his crazed grin sets the detective on edge. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Russian Roulette.”

 

“...what?”

 

The bullet disappears and Nines shuts the cylinder, spinning it with a laugh. Once the cylinder stops, he places the .38 Smith on the table between them. Gavin feels the thugs release him and settles uneasily in his chair.

 

“The rules are simple: one bullet, six chambers. Each player takes a shot until all chambers are emptied. Two play, one walks away.”

 

“You really expect me to believe you’re offering to blow out your own brains?” Gavin demands.

 

Nines smirks at him lopsidedly and it still unnerves him how similar he looks to his god damn twin. “What I offer is a _boon_ , Detective Reed: a chance to walk away from this alive in spite of your deception. Given what you have undoubtedly profiled of my character, you know I am not one for mercy. So, heed my advice: perhaps you best not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

 

Gavin swipes a tongue across his chapped lips, glaring at the man across from him. “Say I believe you and decide to play your fucked up game. There a reason you’re showing me ‘mercy’ or do you get your rocks off doing stupid shit like this?”

 

Nines laughs, the coy lilt of the sound in stark contrast to the crazed gleam in his eyes. There’s something unsettling about the way he smiles at Gavin, a possessiveness to it that makes the detective feel more and more like every actions he’s committed in the past few months has been leading to this moment, a lamb being raised for slaughter. “The answer is quite simple, Detective: I _like_ you.”

 

The way he says it, the way his eyes rove from Gavin’s face and down his torso with a sense of ownership, should set off all sorts of warning bells in the detective’s head. Instead, Gavin’s cheeks flare as it sinks in and there’s a conflicting surge of heat bubbling low in his abdomen. He tries to school his expression but he’s already given himself away and it makes him snort in disgust.

 

“If you ‘like’ me so much, then fucking let me go already,” he mumbles.

 

He doesn’t expect it to work but figures it’s worth a shot.

 

“And miss out on an opportunity to ‘play’ with the idiot the DPD has tasked with bringing down Kamski’s operation? I think not.”

 

“Who the fuck you calling an idiot, you boot-licking prick?”

 

“The one foolish enough to not realize he’d been compromised prior to beginning his undercover assignment. Given your illustrious history at the DPD, I can’t help but feel disappointment at your failing skills in observation.”

 

“If you’re so fucking smart, how come you’re still playing second fiddle to that asshole Kamski?” Gavin snaps, not even flinching as he hears a gun cock near his ear. Let them put one in his skull but not before he gets under this prick’s skin. “Always second, isn’t that right, Stern? Second son, second in command: you’re so used to getting fucked, no wonder you’re Kamski’s bottom bitch.”

 

A fist slams on the table, startling not only Gavin but the two goons behind him. It effectively silences him but any triumph he feels at breaking his captor’s demeanor is short lived: Nines looks _pissed_ , forced smirk cracking at the edges, but he gestures to his thugs to lower their weapons. Instead of answering with an insult of his own, he carefully flicks back the strands of brown hair that have fallen across his eyes, mirth and rage dancing in his manic eyes.

 

“Your defiance is _cute,_ but it will hardly delay the inevitable. We’re _playing_ , Detective.”

 

“And what if I don’t want to play your stupid, fucking game?”

 

All of his bravado leaves him as Gavin feels the cold metal of a pistol press to the back of his head.

 

“Then I’ll give you a choice: play or we end it right here, right now.”

 

“You’ve got a fucked up understanding of ‘choice’.”

 

“You asked for a choice and I’m giving the only one available to you. So make it quick; the clock’s ticking, Detective Reed.”

 

Gavin’s always been told he’s made questionable choices that defy basic self-preservation: current scenario included as he’s caught somewhere between shitting himself or jacking off his half hard dick at his flirtation with death. But he’s no idiot and even if everything’s gone to shit, he’s gonna leave this world kicking and fucking screaming.

 

He glares, folds his arms over his chest and feels far more petulant than decisive as he concedes to the only real option he’s got. Jesus fucking Christ, this is not how he expected he’d go out. “Fine. You wanna play, we play.”

 

Nines grins and Gavin has to choke back his relief when he no longer feels a gun digging into the back of his head. Picking up the revolver off the table, the drug lord sits back comfortably in his chair and presses the gun to his own temple. “The terms of our game should be easy for even someone of your inferior intellect to follow.”

 

And really, Gavin has to scoff at that because he’s not the dumbass holding a gun against his own head.

 

“We play until all chambers are emptied. If you survive and I am met with an unfortunate end, my men will release you and you can go back to that insufferable partner of yours and let him know I’ll be needing a closed casket. I would also request that he conduct the eulogy as mother has a habit of giving long-winded lectures of my short comings. At the very least, I’d like my funeral to not become yet another breeding ground for her discontent.”

 

Gavin rolls his eyes, not doubting Nines’ words given Connor’s own strained relationship with their mother. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to let him know.”

 

Not that Gavin expects that to happen: what are the chances that one of Detroit’s most notorious criminals will let him walk out of this alive?

 

“We’ll make sure the DPD is aware of your body’s location, in the event that you lose,” Nines promises. “In tact. So that you may receive a proper funeral.”

 

“Great. I always wanted to die in the middle of fucking January,” Gavin adds sarcastically.

 

“No need to be so pessimistic, Detective. A third outcome is available to you but comes at a price.”

 

The detective’s interest is piqued at that, though by this point, he should know better than to encourage this psychopath. “Do I even want to know what the fuck you have in mind?”

 

“At any point, after both of us have fired a single round—on the condition we both remain alive—you may quit the game. You will be released but not before you give what I ask of you and this will be done so _willingly_ and without complaint. Likewise, should I refuse to pull the trigger, you will be released and returned to your temporary residence unharmed. Do you agree to those terms?”

 

The detective pauses, considers the few options he’s been given. It’s fucked up—so beyond what regularly constitutes ‘fucked up’ in his life—and there’s no guarantee he can even trust the word of a wanted criminal.

 

“If I can ‘quit’ any time I want, why make me play at all?” Gavin demands. “Why not just give me the deal now, try and get whatever fucking info you want out of me, and let me walk?”

 

“Because,” Nines answers, “you’re just like me. You’re a thrill-seeker. And I’m curious to see how far you will go for a _thrill._ ”

 

The intimate way his index finger strokes the trigger sends a trill singing down Gavin’s spine. And fuck if the asshole’s not right, if Gavin’s not aching in his suddenly tight jeans at the prospect of seeing how many rounds he can take this fucker.

 

The prick wants to play. Fine. Gavin will beat the asshole at his own fucking game.

 

For the record, Gavin’s never claimed to make wise life choices.

 

“We gonna start or you gonna keep talking my ear off with your bullshit?” the detective says, smirking.

 

Nines smiles and his finger presses the trigger. Gavin’s left watching, with bated breath, as the gap between the trigger and the frame closes.

 

Click.

 

The gangster feigns disappointment as he lowers the weapon. “Well, it seems I live for another round. Your turn, Detective Reed.”

 

Gavin hesitates, stares suspiciously as the gun is held out to him, handle first. There’s something not adding up in all this. “You sure it’s wise to give a hostage a loaded gun?”

 

He presses his palm to the handle, fingers grazing against Nines’ in the hand off, and has to bury the sensation of sparks exploding across his skin at the brief moment of contact. It would be so easy to take that weapon, aim it at the fucker, and try to fire off as many rounds as he can point blank before one of the thugs stops him.

 

“There’s a one-in-five chance the chamber’s loaded. Is 20% the kind of odds worth risking certain death with the chance to play hero?” Nines says, reading Gavin’s mind.

 

The detective shrugs, lifts the gun, feels the cold barrel of it dig into his temple. Adrenaline courses through his blood as he steadies his grip on the trigger, feels sweat gathering at his hairline. His gaze remains unwavering as he stares across the table at the handsome face of his captor, tongue whetting his lips. “Living’s overrated anyway.”

 

Click.

 

Relief floods his veins at the sound. But he doesn’t let it show, spinning the gun by its frame until the barrel rests in his palm and he hands it back to Nines.

 

This time, the gangster lets his touch linger at the hand off, his thumb rubbing the space between Gavin’s own thumb and index finger. There’s a challenge in those cold eyes that welcome a temptation Gavin’s knows he shouldn’t indulge but Gavin’s certain, if he walks away from this, that there are many things about this fucking night he should never have indulged to begin with, once he has the luxury of hindsight.

 

But that’s shit he can mull over when he’s not flirting with death and pressing her sleek body against his flesh.

 

One in four.

 

Nines seems unfazed as he positions the gun back at his temple, the ease of the gesture making Gavin wonder how often he’s done this. Fucking narcissist seems to be enjoying the show he’s putting on for the detective.

 

“Whenever the stakes are raised, two kinds of players emerge: those who play to win, and those who play to not lose.”

 

Click.

 

One in three.

 

“I wonder which kind of player you are, Detective.”

 

Gavin scoffs as he accepts the gun. There’s sweat gathering in his hands but he knows that this has become as much a game of chicken as it has a game of life and death. And he won’t be the one to back down first, not if his misplaced pride can help it. “That shit should be obvious: you didn’t give me much of a fucking choice. I’m playing to not lose.”

 

His hand shakes unsteadily as he brings the gun again to his temple. There’s a perverse pleasure in Nines’ eyes. “Then I suppose I should be asking: what constitutes as ‘losing’ to you?”

 

His sweaty finger slides against the trigger. He can quit. He _should_ quit. Because at 33%, it should not be worth the fucking risk.

 

“Death,” he answers but he knows it’s a lie as soon as he says it.

 

And from the look on Nines’ face, the asshole knows it too.

 

“Somehow, I doubt the answer’s that simple for you, Detective Reed.”

 

He leans forward, elbows propped on the table’s surface. This close, Gavin can count the freckles on Nines’ unblemished face, the largest beneath the prominent cheek bone on the right side of his face. Just like on Connor’s.

 

He hesitates.

 

“Well...are you gonna pull the trigger or not, Detective?”

 

And how fucking easy would that be, to end it all right here, right now?

 

He feels the gap closing in the frame as he presses down on the trigger. The glee on Nines’ face looks fucked up, so different from how he would picture Connor’s expression if his partner could see him now.

 

“ _Gavin! Stop!”_ He would probably plea with him, dark eyes brimming the way they always had every time Gavin started arguing over shit that was pointless, shit that made them as toxic as they were to each other.

 

_Stop._

 

...Gavin is so fucking sick of living with that god damn, self-righteous voice in his head.

 

The gun _clicks._

 

He exhales loudly, gun nearly sliding out of his hand. It hits him in a rush—that he had bet his life on reckless machismo and spite towards his ex, doing the type of shit that ensures he won’t make it past the age of 50. He’s trembling, burning with a survivor’s high, as he passes the gun back to Nines.

 

And Jesus fucking Christ, if that’s not the kind of high he can get used to.

 

“Your turn, asshole.”

 

The smile leaves Nines’ face as he regards the gun with careful consideration. Maybe he didn’t expect Gavin to take it this far, not with the chance to quit at any time available.

 

One in two.

 

A fifty percent chance that the prick blows out his own brains.

 

But if Gavin was dumb for playing the odds at two-in-three, Nines would be an even bigger idiot for staking it all on an empty chamber.

 

He can already taste sweet freedom.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna pussy out now?” Gavin taunts, unable to keep himself from snickering. “That’s all you fuckers are—all talk, no game.”

 

“I...admit you exceeded my expectations,” Nines answers, quietly.

 

“Yeah, I do that sometimes,” Gavin says, with a shrug. He slowly lifts himself to his feet. “Well, guess that means you gotta let me go. Wouldn’t wanna go ruining that pretty face of yours.”

 

He cusses under his breath as he’s forced back into the chair. But his protests are drowned out by an exaggerated sigh that draws his gaze back to his captor. Much to his shock, Nines lifts the gun and cocks it at his temple, an almost naive widening of his eyes chilling Gavin to his bone.

 

“H-hey, you should just—”

 

“No, no, Detective. It would be quite rude of me to end our game prematurely, wouldn’t it? Not after I had insisted on you playing.”

 

Nines rests his finger on the trigger.

 

“Fuck sakes, even you can’t be that much of a fucking thrill junkie,” Gavin snaps. He tries not to show his panic but his voice cracks in his distress. “Game’s over, asshole: let me go already.”

 

“You should know, Detective Reed: I always play to win,” Nines answers, closing the frame’s gap.

 

And suddenly, Gavin’s brought back to a conversation he had weeks ago, the last time he saw Connor in person. The lieutenant had been on edge all morning as Gavin prepared to go undercover, finally pulling him aside for a private chat in the interrogation room. The detective knew what it was about before Connor even opened his mouth. _“I know he’s done some...questionable things,”_ Connor had said. _“But he’s still my brother. Just...please, promise me, Gav. Once you gather all you need to take him down, you’ll bring him in alive.”_

 

And Gavin, never being able to resist those fucking eyes, had said, _“Fine. But I ain’t promising shit if the asshole does something stupid.”_

 

And this is certainly _stupid_ so Gavin doesn’t have to intervene. He doesn’t have to give a shit. If dipshit wants to paint the room with his own brains, he can fucking well do it.

 

Except…

 

“Stop!” Gavin shouts, lurching forward in his chair. “Fucking stop already! I fucking quit!”

 

The man across from him pauses, gray eyes blinking.

 

“Yeah, that’s right: Game. Fucking. Over. So why don’t you drop the gun?”

 

But he doesn’t do as the detective commands, lips twisting in a wide grin.

 

“I believe,” Nines says, and his words sink with cold dread into the pit of Gavin’s stomach, “you just lost.”

 

Click.

 

There’s no sound of a bullet exiting the chamber, no splash of violent color weeping from the fatal tearing of flesh.

 

There’s nothing but deafening silence.

 

Gavin watches, in horror, as Nines pulls the gun away from his own temple. “Well, it appears my assumption was correct: the bullet is in the final chamber.”

 

“...you’re fucking insane!”

 

He’s shaking so hard, he needs to grip the edge of his chair. But it’s not only the panic that’s making him slip into _fight or flight_ but also the revelation that he played right into the fucker’s hand, let the asshole get into his head. “ _I always play to win.”_

 

...Gavin is a fucking idiot.

 

“Leave us.”

 

He hears footsteps retreating, the door behind him shutting and sealing them in. He doesn’t look up at Nines as he hears the man’s shoes click on the floor. The air beside him shifts and from his peripheral, he can see those long legs extend as the gangster seats himself on the table’s edge.

 

“Whatever it is you wanna know, you’re getting shit out of me,” Gavin says, quietly. He swallows. Hard. “You’re just gonna have to kill me.”

 

He knows he should take the offer: whatever Nines asks in exchange to walk. Those were the terms he agreed to. But Gavin has nothing—no house, no family, no one to fucking go home to anymore—except a fucking thankless job that he is actually not complete shit at. So if this is what it’s gonna take to keep the last good thing in his life _good_ before he bites it, he knows he’s only got one option.

 

“You haven’t heard my request yet.”

 

“Don’t need to: I’m not gonna give up what we’ve got on you and your cronies and I sure as fuck am not about to become one of your fucking moles. I’ve got fuck all to offer you so if you’re gonna get rid of me, make it quick.”

 

“You sell yourself too short, Gavin.”

 

He releases a self-deprecating laugh, a sound far more depressing to his own ears. He wants to make some shitty joke about how much of his life has been about coming up ‘short’ (own height included) but startles when he feels a gentle hand tilt his chin up. There’s so much swimming in those gray eyes he’s written off as cold as they lock onto his, understanding that has his trepidation melting away as he leans into the touch.

 

With catlike grace, Nines drops to the floor, kneeling at Gavin’s side. Those stray hairs fall in front of his eyes as he stares up at the detective with a soft gaze, lips pulling into a coy smile. There’s almost a conflicting shyness that betrays the confident smirk as Nines leans up to kiss the edge of the detective’s jaw.

 

Gavin’s so touch starved, he makes a sound he’s not proud of as lips press against his stubble.

 

“I want _you,_ Gavin,” Nines whispers against his flesh. His mouth nibbles at the line of Gavin’s jaw and the detective finds himself whimpering in reply. The gangster sits back on his haunches, blown pupils hungry with the same need that’s threatening to burst against the confines of Gavin’s jeans. “That is my request.”

 

Guy’s fucking unhinged, nearly blowing a hole in his own skull just to prove a god damn point. A criminal they’ve been trying for months to link to unsolved murders even if, yeah, the lowlifes whose bodies they found had been suspected of doing even worse shit than the stuff they’re trying to connect Kamski and Stern to. Not to mention he’s Gavin’s ex’s twin fucking brother and this is a whole other level of _wrong_ that Gavin knows better than to indulge.

 

So, of course, he does.

 

“Then fucking kiss me already, dipshit,” Gavin demands, gripping the gangster by his loose tie and yanking him upwards.

 

It’s the crashing of violent tides against an unsuspecting shoreline when they collide, an explosion of _want_ that has Gavin submitting to the lips that claim his. He’s at the mercy of that mouth that plays his as assuredly as Nines has played him in their game and Gavin should have _known_ he was in danger of yielding, should have known he wasn’t walking away from this until Nines has taken all that he wants from the detective.

 

Gavin should have fucking _known._ And if he’s being a bit more honest with himself, he did.

 

But he can’t bring himself to care as he parts his lips, surrendering to the hot tongue that slides against his own.

 

 _Fuck._ He can pretend all he wants that it’s the god damn head wound that’s making him dizzy but even he can’t recall the last time anyone’s kissed him like _this._

 

“Shit,” he finds himself uttering when the other man pulls away, firm grip on Nines’ tie ensuring the gangster can’t get too far.

 

Gavin’s panting and fuck if he doesn’t already sound wrecked when the asshole’s barely touched him.

 

Nines’ grin is wolfish, fingers tracing up the inside of the detective’s thigh until his palm is ghosting over the prominent bulge begging for his attention. Gavin cants his hips, presses against what little sweet friction the prick’s offering him, twisting the silk tie in his hand to pull him in close for another searing kiss. He loses himself in the heat of those demanding lips, heady on the rich scent of sandalwood and the lingering hint of tobacco, until all he can taste, all he can feel, is _Nines._

 

“W-why me?” he gasps against Nines’ mouth.

 

Nines settles on Gavin’s lap, those sinfully long legs stretching down to the floor on either side of the detective. Gavin can’t even fucking think straight with the way Nines’ rubs him through his jeans, like he god damn knows how to make the detective’s body sing for him, and Gavin’s throwing his head back with a low groan. It only incites those lips to tease and nip at his exposed neck and the gangster does it with relish, finding all the spots that leave his toes curling, has his cock straining to feel the slap of skin against it. Fuck, it’s been long enough that he might just end up cumming if Nine’s keeps at it.

 

Luckily, Nines can read just how ‘excited’ the detective is and pulls back his assault, a low chuckle buried in the crook of Gavin’s neck. The hot breaths that fall against his skin make the detective shiver. “I’ve spent months following you, Detective. I know everything about you: everything from the questionable life choices that have led you to this point to which bars you frequent and how you take your drink.”

 

He lifts his head, sitting to his full height, staring down at Gavin as if he’s analyzing some barely perceptible quirk, unraveling a facet of the detective’s character that’s eluded him for so long. The confession should disturb him but it’s not as if Gavin hasn’t done the exact same, taking what little Connor could offer given he’s had no contact with his twin in the last decade and trying to parse out the facts from the fallacious rumors whispered among the petty thugs, to build a profile of Nines.

 

“Take the other night,” Nines continues, “ ‘Dex’ ordered a whiskey straight, his assumed drink of choice, predictable for a man projecting an aura of hyper masculinity. And yet, if it had been Gavin Reed, he would have ordered an Old Fashioned, a more acceptable alternative for someone with a sweet tooth but with a penchant for overcompensating. It’s a behavioral trait that’s become a prominent aspect of your personality.”

 

“I ain’t overcompensating shit,” Gavin protests.

 

“On the contrary, Detective. It’s something I find...rather endearing.”

 

A blush heats Gavin’s face and he averts his eyes from that piercing gaze that seems only to pick him apart the more he stares into it. “Asshole.”

 

After a beat, Nines adds, quietly, “I know what it’s like to be overlooked: to work hard until your goals are within reach, only to be overshadowed by someone presumed _better_. Men like you and I are never on a level playing field; the bar’s set higher for us and everyone expects us to _fail_ and when we do, we fall twice as far.”

 

The words hit Gavin like a wave, and he’s submerged in the icy depths of his contempt, that insidious sensation he’s tried so hard to bury in the last year and a half filling his veins. He thinks of Hank fucking Anderson who he’s since had a personal falling out with, swooping in to be Connor’s shoulder to cry on after Connor _left_ Gavin, eventually taking and marrying the man that had been Gavin’s _everything_. He thinks of nights of drinking until he’s numb, passing out in the space he had cohabited for nearly four years, dragging his hungover ass back to work each morning and becoming a listless spectator to his miserable existence, watching as his job performance slowly deteriorates and Connor makes Lieutenant and Anderson eventually becomes Captain.

 

‘ _I know it hasn’t been easy,’_ fucking Connor had tried telling him, the ring he wears on his finger a glaring rift between them, _‘but I’m worried about you.’_

 

And how many times had Gavin wanted to scream at him, _‘If you care so fucking much then why did you leave me, prick!’_

 

That they stayed partners mystified even their coworkers. But even being the walking fucking disaster he was, Gavin still performed best with Connor, the only one who would put up with his shit. If he has become that much more reckless, that much more prone to snapping at the new captain or taking more wounds in the field in the last year than in the near 15 years in law enforcement prior to that, well...no one could really blame the detective for caring even less for self-preservation.

 

And the most fucked up part of all this is that this is the first time Gavin believes someone actually _gets_ what it is he’s been feeling the day since Connor walked out on him.

 

“That’s why we seek our thrills wherever we can find them,” Nines says. His lashes flutter against his pale cheeks, lips pulling into a twisted half-smile that’s so beautifully maniacal, it makes Gavin shudder in both fear and want, “because only when we’ve flirted with death do we feel alive. It’s but a reprieve from the crippling knowledge of knowing you’re a disappointment but you and I, we’ve become quite adept at finding solace in distraction.”

 

And to emphasize his point, he ruts his hard cock against Gavin’s, sending a pleasurable tremor rocking the detective to his core. A moan bursts at the back of Gavin’s throat as his hands fall to Nines hips, pulling and angling the gangster to maximize the friction between them. Each move of his hips makes Gavin sink further into the delirium, the reckless abandon that’s made him forget why he should give two shits about who he’s dealing with.

 

“Fucking you instead of killing you may very well be my undoing,” Nines admits and he seems to relish in his own carelessness, chuckling to himself. A gentle moan tumbles off his lips, the glossy sheen of them making Gavin’s tongue dart out to wet his own. “But I’ll not deny I’ve developed a bit of an obsession with you, Gavin.”

 

The detective barks out a hoarse laugh, which breaks into a soft cry as Nines yanks his head back by his hair, tongue licking a long stripe across his Adam’s apple. “You admit that to every asshole you stalk, you sick fuck?”

 

Much to Gavin’s embarrassment, he can tell he’s dangerously close. Nines has worked him up so god damn much, he’s two seconds away from tumbling over the edge and ruining a good pair of underwear.

 

“We both know your resistance is a pretense: you’re _mine_ and I haven’t even had you yet,” Nines pants in his ear and fuck if it’s not the most fucked up but hottest thing anyone’s ever fucking said to him.

 

Balls tight and aching for sweet release, Gavin grasps handfuls of the gangster’s ass, lifts Nines just so to deny his cock that wonderful friction. He whimpers as his head falls to Nines’ chest and it takes all his willpower to bring himself down, keep him from canting his hips up to rub against that tight ass. But he’s not about to spill in his pants like some overzealous teen after a bit of hot petting. Gavin’s recent dry spell may have made him a bit desperate (okay, _a lot)_ for some action but he’s not _that_ hopeless.

 

After a few moments, he lifts his head, mussed bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Maybe I don’t wanna make it that easy for you.”

 

It doesn’t take much to switch their positions, Gavin asserting what little control he has to push Nines down in the chair, leaning over the gangster with a confident smirk playing on his lips. There’s an almost condescending amusement in the gray eyes that gaze up at him and it only invigorates the detective, makes him want to to show this asshole whose very presence makes his own thugs near shit themselves in fear, that Gavin Reed is no man’s bitch.

 

He dips his head, traces Nines’ lower lip with a swipe of his tongue. In response, those lips part—an act of compliance—but instead of plunging inside, Gavin’s pulling Nines’ lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make a moan ripple in the gangster’s throat. There’s a hint of copper as he teases the tip of Nines’ tongue with his own, deepens the kiss with a heady groan as their mouths move together in sloppy desperation, his hand fumbling blindly at the clasp of Nines’ pants. The large bulge filling those already impossibly tight pants seem to make it take even longer, though it may just be Gavin’s impatience for some good dick.

 

With a grunt of frustration, he breaks off the kiss and drops to his knees, mumbling as both hands work open Nines’ fly, “You always wear pants this fucking tight?”

 

His eyes nearly widen as he grasps the gangster’s cock, pulls it free. It’s longer and thicker than anything he’s had in years and _fuuuuuuuck_ , those extra inches Nines has on Connor are not just on height. No wonder the asshole walks into every room as if he’s fucking packing.

 

There’s bemusement in the gangster’s voice as he asks, “Like what you see, Detective?”

 

Blood dribbles down Nines’ pale chin, the violence Gavin had inflicted on the gangster’s mouth a stark contrast to the cherubic beauty of his face. There’s something almost more dangerous in the complacent mirth dancing in his eyes, the splash of color across his cheeks. Even the gasp that tumbles off his lips when Gavin slides his hand up that thick shaft seems somehow calculated.

 

“No need to get cocky,” Gavin sneers, not willing to admit to himself that the absolute power Nines seems to assert is really hot. He spits in the palm of his hand, grasps the base of Nines’ cock, and gives it a few pumps.

 

Fingers fly to his hair, tangling into his sweaty locks as soft moans accompany the slap of his hand beating off the gangster’s cock. Though there’s a persistent and impatient tugging, Gavin takes his sweet ass time, collecting saliva in his mouth to drizzle in thick globs onto the head of Nines’ dick. Just the size of it has had Gavin salivating over how fucking amazing it’ll feel hitting the back of his throat and it’s as much a game of wills for him to resist taking it all in at once.

 

“You are taking an inordinate amount of time to suck me off,” Nines says, though even Gavin can’t miss the strain in that nonchalant tone.

 

The grip in his hair is painful and it makes his own neglected cock weep impatiently in his jeans. The detective darts his eyes up and drinks in the smoldering hunger in those blown pupils, lips pulled in mild agitation. The obnoxious prick might think himself above supplication but he’s been putty in Gavin’s hand since he started jacking him off.

 

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

 

A miffed look passes over the other man’s face. “I don’t _beg._ I am merely pointing out that you are engaging in an activity I can very well do myself.”

 

“You always this much of a dick when someone’s getting you off?”

 

The hand not grasping his hair gingerly touches his face, Nines tracing his thumb over the large, faded scar that stretches across Gavin’s cheek. He flinches, in surprise, not expecting the soft gesture. The touch makes his skin tingle, aching for that hand to traverse across the flesh not marred by the reckless decisions in his youth. He’s always hated that scar, hated that it’s the one thing that’s kept his face just this side of handsome. Even with Connor, it had taken months after they became intimate before Gavin would let him touch him there.

 

“On the contrary: my poor bedside manner is simply my impatience to see if that mouth of yours is capable of more than your continued commentary.” A meaningful pause as Nines’ rubs soothing circles where the scar fades into day old stubble. “You really are beautiful, Gavin.”

 

Much to his embarrassment, Gavin feels a prickling at the edge of his vision, swallows shakily as he fumbles mid stroke. Nines sounds so much like _Connor_ in the way he says it, reminds him of the few good memories he has of sinking between Connor’s thighs post coital as his ex-lover whispered such things to him. Gavin had never believed it but so long as Connor did, it made him a little less insecure.

 

He blinks away the sensation, forces a rather sad sounding laugh that has him inwardly cringing. “No need to get all sappy on me just to get some head.”

 

Nines is about to respond but Gavin uses the opportunity to swipe his tongue along the slit, gathering the beads that pearl there. He moans as the bitter taste hits his tongue, swirls it along the head of Nines’ cock. He feels the gangster’s thighs tremble, his breathy shudders more melodic than the arias Gavin would hear sung in the orphanage’s church choir of his childhood. He’s never been a firm believer in any sort of higher power but he is ready to prostrate himself before whatever deity to never forget the sound of Nines’ submitting to his tongue.

 

He shifts, sits up on his knees to angle himself just right to sink his mouth down on Nines’ cock. It’s a lot to take in and he does it slowly, sliding down inch-by-inch until he’s more than halfway down the shaft, his hand working the spit dripping down along the base. Fuck...he’s already about to hit his gag reflex and he’s choking on not even two thirds of Nines. It burns—God, does it fucking _burn—_ but it feels so good, Gavin can’t keep himself from moving, hollowing out his throat to take as much as he can as he moves his mouth on the gangster’s dick.

 

He’s almost forgotten how much he’s missed giving head.

 

“I apologize for having doubted your capabilities,” Nines says, his careful control slipping with each pull of his cock between Gavin’s lips.

 

Gavin pops his mouth off with a loud _smack_ , saliva webbing from his lips to the tip. He darts his eyes up, smirking playfully. “I haven’t even gotten started, babe.”

 

He licks a long stripe up the shaft, feels an impatient tug in his hair. But Gavin’s relishing how quickly Nines’ has come undone, teases the underside of the swollen head, mouths at the tip steadily weeping salty need onto his gluttonous tongue. There’s a growl that breaks into something resembling a near whine and when Gavin glances up, his own dick twitches at the sight of sweat-drenched locks sticking to the gangster’s forehead, loose tie hanging limply around his neck, wrinkles building on his dress shirt.

 

Nines is a complete and utter wreck. And it’s all because of Gavin.

 

_You’re mine, fucker._

 

He doesn’t break contact as he takes him deep, forcing Nines as far back as he can, ignoring the discomforting spasm that quakes in his throat. He’s pushed to his limits as he bobs his mouth up and down Nines’ shaft, each time that cock hits the narrow entrance of his throat eliciting a gargled slurp that thunders in Gavin’s ears. Fuck, is it painful but Gavin can give two shits for his own comfort when he’s tripping off the sense of absolute power that comes with feeling his captor tense beneath him, knowing that his mouth is bringing that conceited prick so close to the edge. Just a bit more and he’ll be swallowing him, tasting his bitter seed and fuck, does Gavin _want_ it, does he want to feel Nines’ hot cum dripping off his—

 

“Nghn—s-stop!”

 

Nines yanks Gavin off his cock with enough force that the detective falls back on his ass, nearly hits his head on the table behind him. He cusses, about to snap a string of insults because _who the fuck does shit like that when getting some fucking amazing head?_ but the predatory hunger in the gangster’s lust filled gaze has Gavin’s protests dying on his lips.

 

Nines swipes a hand across his sweaty bangs, the red coloring his cheeks making the moles disappear. He’s panting, heavily, licks at the blood that’s dried from the cut on his lip. He’s trying to collect himself, correct the breaks in his composure but Gavin’s already seen how easily that control can slip, with the right motivation. And masochistic asshole that he is, he wants to see more of it, even if it ruins him.

 

Gavin’s on his lap in seconds, writhing on him, tangling their tongues together and moaning wantonly into the kiss. Strong hands push the worn, leather jacket he wears off his shoulders and though the warehouse is cold as fuck, Gavin’s burning hot, pressing into the hands that slip beneath his shirt, caress slick skin up to this pectorals. A thumb flicks over one of his nipples and he’s left shuddering against Nines’ kiss swollen lips.

 

“Fuck me,” he gasps, so dizzy with need he can’t bring himself to care who’s in control any more.

 

There’s a dangerous gleam in Nines’ eyes and it leaves Gavin feeling more as if he’s offered himself to a starving lion. But the look passes quickly, replaced with an innocent smile the detective should know better than to trust. Lips press a trail across his jawline, teeth nibbling at his lobe, pulling and suckling on the soft cartilage. Gavin groans and grinds down in response.

 

“Unbuckle your pants and bend over for me,” Nines whispers, in a tone that’s soft but leaves no room for question. It sends a thrill straight to Gavin’s dick.

 

He does as he’s told, positions himself with his back to the gangster, one hand propping him up on the table and the other unzipping his jeans. He frees his dick, shivers at how fucking good it feels to _finally_ get touched but he knows he won’t be lasting long once Nines is inside him, wills himself to ignore the ache screaming from his balls and pulls his jeans and boxers down mid-thigh.

 

From his peripheral, he notes the abandoned gun resting on the edge of the table.

 

There’s a soft tearing sound that catches his attention, has Gavin throwing a glance over his shoulder. He watches as Nines rolls a condom onto his thick cock, can’t help but raise a brow. “You always bring condoms when dealing with rats?”

 

There’s a bemused look on the gangster’s face, who discards the wrapper and reaches for the pocket in his dress shirt. He pulls out a small bottle containing a clear, viscous liquid and Gavin doesn’t need his contacts to identity the tiny text on the label.

 

The revelation hits him like a ton of bricks.

 

The asshole has been planning this long before Gavin was jumped in his flat.

 

“I considered a variety of outcomes and prepared accordingly, given how impulsive you tend to be,” is all Nines says, flippantly, as he squeezes lubricant onto his hand.

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not _that_ predictable, you presumptuous mother fu—”

 

His gasp of surprise cracks into a high pitched whine as a slick hand pumps along his shaft. There’s just the right amount of pressure to make his balls twinge in desperation for release, cock throbbing in Nines’ hand, and Gavin’s pitching forward onto the table, the metal legs scraping against the floor. Latex presses between his cheeks, Nines’ cock sliding close to his entrance and Gavin’s not sure if he wants to beg the gangster to pound into him or beat him off because he needs it that fucking bad and doesn’t care how he makes him cum.

 

“I don’t believe you are in any position to question my observation,” Nines says, with a breathy chuckle that tickles the back of Gavin’s neck.

 

He releases his cock and Gavin has to choke back a sob, his leaking dick smearing dribbles of precum against the table’s edge. Nines seems intent to let him suffer—perhaps a little bit of vengeance after the bit of teasing Gavin subjected him to—as his slicked fingers circle the detective’s hole, wetting the skin around it but making no effort to breach him. Gavin makes a sound of impatience, tries to press back and impale himself on one of them, but Nines easily anticipates it.

 

“Are you always this impatient when being pleasured?” Nines asks, mocking Gavin’s tone from earlier.

 

And because Gavin is that much of an asshole, he can’t help but quip, “Connor used to say the same shit to me. But at least he knew how to give me a good poun—”

 

Nines pulls Gavin upright viciously by his hair, making the detective cry out, back taut against the gangster’s chest. One of those long fingers jams into him and it fucking _hurts_ like a bitch, reminding him it’s been months since he’s had anything inside him—a stupid, drunken one-night stand the weekend of Connor and Hank’s wedding, shit he barely remembers—and he’s whimpering and shaking because he wants fucking _more._

 

 _Fucking rip me open already,_ he wants to beg.

 

But the hot breath that falls against his ear becomes an icy chill as Nines’ makes his displeasure known.

 

“I am **not** my brother,” he snaps, thrusting a second finger into Gavin, curling them so they scrape painfully against the detective’s inner walls. Gavin hisses in ecstasy at the intrusion, attempts to bear down on them as Nines begins plunging his fingers in and out of the detective, but the gangster’s got him in a vice, hand wound so tightly in Gavin’s locks, he half expects his head wound to reopen. There’s nothing at all nice in the way Nines’ teeth press into the junction where Gavin’s neck meet his shoulder, skin flaring as the gangster mark’s his conquest, a claim. “Had I had you first, you would have no reason to doubt what I am capable of, nor compare me to my inferior sibling.”

 

The mouth that bites also soothes, his tongue laving at the damage its wrought on Gavin’s olive skin. Gavin’s eyes water, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye, the residual sting dulling with each wet caress. A third finger teases open his pucker, pushing into him with more care than Nines had shown earlier, and Gavin can only just take it, mewls at how wonderful it feels to be fucked open.

 

“I would never discard you, Gavin,” Nines whispers, nosing the edge of his ear. There’s a mad sincerity to what he’s promising, utter devotion that should not be as welcome coming from the manipulations of a criminal. But Gavin’s trust has been broken so many times by the people that mean the most to him, his judgment is damaged just enough that he’s almost willing to place his bets on Nines’ words, if only so he can believe he’ll be good enough for _someone._

 

Fuck, he was never good enough for Connor. If the best Gavin can get is a deranged drug lord suspected of numerous murders, he’ll fucking take it.

 

“Yeah, I heard that one before,” Gavin mutters.

 

Soft kisses litter the back of his neck, Nines’ mouth paying tribute to the exposed flesh. Each touch of his lips is a hymn sung in fervor for his captive and it’s becoming more and more difficult for Gavin to recall the fucked up machinations that brought him to this point, to remind himself that’s he nothing but a moving piece in Nines’ game.

 

He wants to believe so _badly_ in what Nines’ says.

 

“You have wanted this since the moment of our first meeting,” Nines tells him, “since you attempted, quite poorly, to hide your attraction behind your contemptible behavior. You offered yourself to me before I had to ask; I am merely conveying that you need not worry about my loyalty. I am as much yours as you are mine.”

 

His fingers stroke against that place deep inside of Gavin that has colors bursting behind his eyes, the detective collapsing forward onto the table, body shuddering around Nines’ hand. So close, so fucking close—

 

“But speak his name again in my presence,” Nines says, his voice dripping with contempt that sends a shiver straight to Gavin’s core, “and you will know how unforgiving I can be.”

 

He withdraws his fingers, ignoring the detective’s whine of protest. Gavin presses back, legs spreading as much as the jeans will allow, presenting his ass like a bitch in heat. He needs it—fuck, he _needs_ Nines like he’s never needed anyone, wants to be filled and fucked until he can’t think straight, ass so sore, he’ll be feeling that endowed fucker for days.

 

He doesn’t even give a shit what he’s agreeing to any more, what he’s saying.

 

He just _needs_.

 

“P-please,” he begs, blunt nails scraping against the tabletop, rubbing his ass back against the gangster’s cock, “Nines, _please!_ ”

 

There’s a shift in the air between them, a crackle like static that resounds off the name Gavin’s uttered. It’s the final relinquishing of what little control he’s pretended to have since the start of this encounter. His submission.

 

He feels Nines lean over him, his sultry voice tickling the tip of Gavin’s ear, “Anything for you, Gavin.”

 

Gavin knows the stretching wasn’t sufficient for what’s about to come, knows there’s barely enough lube in him to handle Nines. But he doesn’t want it to be nice, doesn’t want it to be clean: he’s with the wrong Stern twin for that.

 

When the tip of Nines’ cock breaches him, Gavin’s grunting into the back of his hand, spittle sticking to his lips. He’s barely got an inch in and it’s like he’s being torn open, his pucker burning with the stretch, muscles contracting as if to deny Nines’ entry. But it only makes him more determined to take the gangster, Gavin trying to push back onto Nines’ cock. The firm grip on his hips, however, keep him pinned against the table.

 

“Patience, Detective,” Nines says, amusement in his voice. There’s a breathless groan as he presses in slowly, each painstaking inch making Gavin’s thighs quiver. “You would not want me to hurt you.”

 

The haughty laugh that follows makes Gavin want to roll his eyes. Then again, he’d probably be as cocksure as the prick if he was that hung.

 

“Fucking hurry up already,” Gavin moans, biting down on his hand a moment later. Fuck. Yeah, he’s definitely gonna be feeling that later. “I can fucking take it.”

 

A contemplative pause.

 

“...as you wish.”

 

With little warning, Nines slams into him.

 

Filled to the hilt, a white-hot searing pang has Gavin crying out loudly, tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks. The table rattles beneath him, chest shoved forward onto its pristine surface, the manila folder flying onto the floor in front of him. Its contents spill—dozens of images of Gavin doing mundane shit—and Gavin stares down with bleary eyes, thinking this is some sort of fucked up symbolism for the hot mess his life has become.

 

A hoarse moan fills the room as Nines begins to pull out. It hurts almost as much on the retreat, his inner walls convulsing and squeezing the gangster’s dick but no amount of pain could chase the euphoria of hearing Nines’ voice quiver with bliss. “You feel so good, Gavin.”

 

The absolute reverence in those words has a deep blush spreading to the tips of Gavin’s ears. “Yeah? I should fucking hope so.”

 

He stifles a pained grunt as Nines thrusts back in. His body is still struggling to accommodate the near ten inches Nines has to work with—and he’s not even gonna hazard an estimate at how god damn thick he is—cradling his captor so deep inside of him, he’s left inundated from the sensation. He’s never been this filled before, is surprised he’s even able to bear it, despite all his earlier posturing of how much he can take.

 

Sensing that Gavin’s proclamations are more of a front, Nines eases out more gently this time, pauses before pushing in once again. It’s easier this time, though there’s still resistance, and the sob that spills from Gavin’s lips is no longer entirely from pain. He feels Nines sheath himself completely in the hot warmth Gavin provides, balls settle against his ass, a hand slipping beneath his shirt to trace across the scars spanning this back. Gavin drops his sweaty forehead to the table, shudders from the tender caresses that ignite something intimate he’s struggling to keep buried, refusing to become another casualty to someone else’s whims.

 

 _It’s just sex,_ he has to remind himself.

 

He’s always been good at lying to himself.

 

“Gavin,” Nines gasps softly, dropping his head between the detective’s shoulder blades as he begins to pump in and out of him. The breathy sounds are barely heard above the gentle smacking of the gangster’s balls against his cheeks but Gavin’s quickly becoming overwhelmed by the pleasure that ripples inside of him with each thrust of Nines’ cock. There’s a slow build that has him uttering the gangster’s name, like a broken record forced to repeat the same syllable, a plea that only Nines can answer.

 

“N-Nines. Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, glancing over his shoulder to watch as the crime lord fucks in and out of him. His words slur, unable to form a coherent thought but he’s enthralled by the sight of that large dick disappearing into his ass with each roll of the gangster’s hips.

 

If he thought Nines looked wrecked before, he’s an absolute mess now: his shirt clings tightly to his pectorals and abs, the undone buttons revealing the light sheen of his pale skin, moles stark even in the shitty lighting. His hair is tousled but where Gavin has no doubt he probably looks like a sweaty tomato with a mess of dark locks, Nines looks completely debauched, hair falling before his eyes, lips parted to let his groans spill unheeded. As he catches Gavin’s gaze, he surges forward, hips slamming against the detective’s ass, lips capturing Gavin’s in a sloppy, heated kiss.

 

Drool spills down Gavin’s chin and he has no fucking idea whose it is, angles his face so his tongue can stroke wetly against Nines’. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in the gangster’s hair, hold him there so Gavin can feel more of that mouth on his, even as his moans are drowned by Nines’ assault on his lips. There’s a building of pressure that’s threatening to explode as Nines pounds into him, the table beneath them shaking and scraping against the concrete floor.

 

“N-Nines, babe—f-fucking—p-please,” Gavin’s begging, trying to rock back and meet each of the gangster’s thrusts.

 

There’s a white-hot burst as Nines’ hits that spot and—fuck, Gavin needs _more—_ and it becomes too much when he feels Nines take him in hand, pumping his fist along his shaft. It takes only a few pulls of the gangster’s wrist, a handful of carefully angled thrusts that slam against Gavin’s prostate, before Gavin’s gasping out a half-broken sob, whiting out as an explosion of pleasure leaves his cock convulsing, spilling into Nines’ hand. His head falls to the table, unbridled euphoria making him tremble and whine as Nines milks him, each stroke sending ripples of pleasure trilling across his skin.

 

A cum covered hand takes him by the hips, Nines chasing his own orgasm. He slams relentlessly into the spent detective and it takes only a few thrusts before he’s tumbling off the edge, spilling inside Gavin with the detective’s name a hoarse groan echoing at the back of his throat. He collapses against Gavin in a sweaty mess, empties himself with a few lazy thrusts, before he stills completely.

 

For a long moment, there’s only the mingling sounds of their gentle panting, the distant echo of Gavin’s racing pulse, moist cheek pressing against the cool metal of the table. From this angle, his eyes lock on the revolver that’s within arm’s reach, fingers itching to stretch forward.

 

Nines is distracted. He can end it all here.

 

He makes a sound of surprise as he feels lips press against the back of his neck, a nose tickle the edge of his hairline.

 

And it feels...nice.

 

_...fuck!_

 

“Go ahead,” Nines whispers, honeyed tone sounding almost bored. “Take it.”

 

“Take what?” Gavin answers, feigning ignorance.

 

He can almost imagine the gangster rolling his eyes at him, the fingers tracing lazy circles on his hips stilling. “The gun. Obviously.”

 

Gavin hesitates. “And why the hell would you let me?”

 

He shudders as he feels Nines slowly pull of of him. Shoes click across the floor as the gangster discards the condom in a nearby bin, the only other object in the room. From the corner of his eye, he can see Nines adjusting himself, buckling his pants back up, demeanor cool even as Gavin struggles to stand shakily on two legs.

 

“Because, Detective,” he says, pausing for effect, gracing Gavin with a smug smirk when the detective finally looks at him, “I know you will not use it on me.”

 

He reaches into his coat still hanging off the chair, pulls out a black silk handkerchief to clean off his hand. He pays the detective no heed as he nonchalantly wipes away the evidence of their coupling.

 

Humiliation colors Gavin’s face, has him yanking his jeans back up, hastily buckling them. The thought of emptying its single bullet into that arrogant fucker makes something sick twist inside Gavin’s gut, is the one thing keeping him from doing his god damn job.

 

He’s supposed to bring that asshole in, get him to confess to the bodies he _knows_ are somehow linked to Kamski’s monopoly in Detroit’s drug problem. And instead, Gavin’s let him literally crawl inside him and manipulate him into compliance.

 

Well, fuck that. He’s so sick of meeting everyone’s expectations of his inevitable failure.

 

“Think again, asshole.”

 

He sweeps his hand across the table, takes the gun, the cool metal of it sitting like a comfortable glove in the palm of his hand. One bullet. That’s all he needs.

 

There’s an almost imperceptible widening of those cool, gray eyes, lips pulled in a tight line. Nines shoulders stiffen as Gavin takes a step towards him, the detective aiming the gun point blank.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Gavin?”

 

He wills his hand to remain steady, gaze hardening as he glares up at at the gangster. The questioning lilt sounds gentle, reminds Gavin of how his name had sounded spilling off that tongue as Nines had been deep inside of him. How fucking good his lips had felt on—

 

He swallows, buries the guilt of turning on someone who now knows him more intimately than he should.

 

He has little doubt that Nines is just as much in this for his own self-interest as he is.

 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, dipshit,” Gavin sneers. He steps in close, digs the gun sharply beneath Nines’ chin, cocks it so the fucker knows how serious he is. “You’re gonna escort me out of this warehouse, tell your goons to back the fuck off, and then you and me, we’re gonna go for a little drive down to the DPD. If you play nice, fess up to the shit Kamski’s got going on, I’ll make sure the DA cuts you a nice deal, maybe get you your own private room in max with a nice view of the courtyard. That sound good to you?”

 

Nines is silent, stares down at Gavin with a contemplative look. The detective can almost see the wheels turning in the sly fucker’s head and keeps his finger firmly on the trigger.

 

“And if I refuse to comply?”

 

“Then I’ll put lead in your fucking skull,” Gavin says, pressing the gun more firmly against the gangster’s throat.

 

He hopes Nines doesn’t call his bluff, sees too much of Connor in the way those eyes flicker with betrayal. Even worse, he sees _Nines_ , sees the man who had worshiped his skin and whispered sweet words as he gave Gavin the best fuck he’s had in years.

 

 _Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,_ he silently pleads.

 

“You must forgive me, Detective,” Nines says, quietly. Fingers encircle the wrist holding the gun, the tender caress startling Gavin, making his grip loosen on the firearm. “But somehow, I doubt that.”

 

His other hand falls to Gavin’s hip, pressing where his fingers had left bruises earlier, pulling Gavin flush against him. Gavin’s hand trembles as it tries to angle the gun once more for a potential ‘kill shot’ but then lips descend on his, crushing his mouth in a heated kiss. His sound of surprise dies in his throat, lips easily parting when Nines’ tongue seeks access. He hardly notices when Nines lowers his hand, sighing softly as Nines licks the roof of his mouth.

 

Cold metal presses to his temple and it’s with sinking dread that he realizes he’s been disarmed, his fingers now curled against the gangster’s chest.

 

“N-Nines,” he whispers, eyes widening. “N-Nines, don’t—!”

 

The gangster’s smile is downright terrifying.

 

_Click!_

 

Heart hammering in his chest, he waits for the bullet that never comes.

 

“It doesn’t feel that nice, does it? Being threatened at gunpoint?”

 

Gavin gapes at him, struck dumb. He becomes aware, quite belatedly, that a shot should have been fired and yet, he’s still standing.

 

“What the—?”

 

With a dramatic sigh, Nines pops open the cylinder, reaches into his pants to pull out the single bullet. “You didn’t really think I’d give a loaded firearm to an undercover cop, did you? I am insulted that you assume so little of me, Detective.”

 

“B-but I saw you...”

 

“Sleight of hand. One of my many _talents_ ,” Nines answers, loading the bullet into an empty chamber, lips pulling in a smirk. “You really should know better than to trust a criminal mastermind, Gavin.”

 

“You fucking pri—!”

 

The cylinder of the gun snaps closed, Nines raising it with intent. His eyes are colder than steel and Gavin finds himself backing away, only stopping when he hears the gun cock. For the first time all evening, he sees Nines the way everyone else does: a merciless killer who is not to be double-crossed.

 

“I don’t respond well to threats,” he says, his cool tone making Gavin shiver in fear. “And I suppose I may have trust issues; though now’s hardly the time to unpack all of that, not when we have an ‘infestation’ problem that needs taking care of.”

 

He barks a command and three men enter the room. Gavin blanches as he realizes they must know what went on in here if they’ve been standing guard this entire time.

 

_Not the time to be regretting shitty life choices._

 

And Jesus fucking Christ, does he have a lot of those.

 

One of the thugs pulls his arms roughly behind his back, Gavin offering little struggle. He’s outmatched, each one armed and he knows he can go down fighting but he’s got one trump card left up his sleeve.

 

“Nines? C’mon, you know that shit was—”

 

He flinches as Nines fires the gun, the bullet hitting the floor in the space between them.

 

“Unfortunately, we must end our meeting on a rather low note. It’s been a pleasure, Detective.” To the thug on Gavin’s right, he adds, “You know what to do with him.”

 

“W-wait! N-Nines!”

 

He tries to wrestle out of the firm hold he’s in, adrenaline pumping in his veins. But his struggle is futile as one of the other thugs presses a soaked cloth to his face. Immediately, his senses are overpowered by the sickeningly-sweet smell of whatever the fuck this is.

 

“Relax, Detective,” he hears Nines say, a soothing voice that grows increasingly distant as Gavin’s eyelids begin to droop. “It will all be over sooner if you stop resisting.”

 

And everything fades to black.

 

* * *

 

 

He comes to some time later, rolling to face the wall with a low groan. Sunlight streams through the ratty blinds, eyes prickling behind his closed lids, so he flings an arm over his face and winces. There’s a dull throbbing in his head, made worse the more he wakes up and absently, he’s inwardly cursing himself for whatever poison he must have thrown back last night. It’s still a bit fuzzy, coming back to him in bits and pieces: Connor wanted him to follow up with two people of interest—Dirk and Lyle—and Gavin remembers something about a bar before he invited them back here to help him finish off a bottle of whiskey and—

 

He bolts upright and immediately regrets it. Pain shoots up from his rear and he winces and falls back on the bed with a soft _thud_.

 

“ _I always play to win.”_

 

“ _I’ve developed a bit of an obsession with you, Gavin.”_

 

“ _Gavin...”_

 

“Oh, fuck me and my fucking dick!” Gavin groans out loud, fingers pressing to the dried blood at his hairline. Yep. If his sore ass isn’t proof enough of his ill-advised romp with the prick he is supposed to find dirt on and arrest, his head wound certainly is.

 

He needs to let the DPD know his cover’s blown. Fuck, he is not looking forward to reporting back to Lieutenant _Anderson_ and explaining, “Yeah so, uh, your brother figured our we’re onto him and he made me play this fucked up game of Russian Roulette and then he kinda fucked me and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t kind of fucking better than the last time you and I had that shitty break up sex and I sorta don’t regret it because fuck if I don’t deserve to have fucking something after the bullshit you put me through, Con!”

 

That’s gonna go over well.

 

He rolls away from the window, squinting as his eyes still struggle to adjust to the light in the room. He’ll have to go into protective custody or some bullshit because guaranteed, Kamski’s probably gonna wanna tie up a loose end and fuck, Gavin’s so sick of being under cover, was looking forward to getting to go back to his apartment—

 

“The fuck?”

 

There’s an envelope sitting on his bedside table, beside his phone and wallet.

 

Carefully, he crawls to the edge of the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as he retrieves it. His name is written in careful, neat script.

 

He pulls out the first of the items it contains: a letter.

 

_Gavin_

 

_Perhaps you are wondering why, unlike what protocol would dictate, I have chosen to let you live._

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Gavin mumbles.

 

_I meant every word I said to you: I would never discard you. Nor will I allow any harm to come to you. Should my men have disobeyed their orders and you find you were ill-handled, you need only message me and I will see they are dealt with accordingly. You will find a direct line of contact to me saved in the cellular device I have provided._

 

Curiously, he takes out the second item: a burner phone. He flips it open, scrolls to the list of contacts, his heart racing as he sees a single name inputted: 9s.

 

 _Dork,_ he thinks. Not fondly.

 

_Our liaison need not end, Gavin. All it requires is your discretion. And I promise that the next time we meet, it will be under more preferable circumstances._

 

_I won’t tell if you don’t ;)_

 

_Nines_

 

He’s joking. He’s got to be fucking joking.

 

_P.S. A little something to remember our time together._

 

He dumps out the final item: the used handkerchief. His dried cum still smeared on the fancy silk. Gavin wrinkles his nose in distaste, knows he should be disgusted with that asshole for assuming Gavin’s some sort of pervert who’s ready to throw away what little self-respect he has left to be the fucker’s plaything. But, in a moment of weakness, he reaches for it, presses the silk to his nose, and inhales deeply. The musky scent of sex and Nines’ cologne has blood filling his cock and he releases a tiny moan, recalling how fucking good it felt to be bent over as Nines pounded into him.

 

Fuck... _fuck!_

 

He flops down on the bed and mumbles an expletive under his breath.

 

Blindly, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. He needs to contact the DPD, let them know he was kidnapped. Assault on an officer should be enough to at least bring in Nines, even if he doesn’t have what he needs to connect him to the murders. Nines will do some time, probably a reduced sentence with whatever overpaid lawyer Kamski provides him with and he may be out for Gavin’s blood upon release but Gavin will be ready.

 

...maybe downplay the whole ‘getting fucked by the Lieutenant’s twin’ part...

 

Or…

 

He hesitates, stares at the burner phone he holds in his other hand.

 

No.

 

He’s gonna do the right thing. He has to.

 

It doesn’t matter how good Nines made him feel.

 

He swallows, eyes darting between the two phones. He likes to tell himself there’s a choice but he’s known since opening that letter what he’s gonna do, what kind of man he is.

 

So he stops pretending, discards the one he doesn’t need, scrolling to the only number that matters. His palms begin to sweat and he licks his dry lips, leg fidgeting impatiently as it dials. It rings twice before a familiar voice answers.

 

“Gavin?”

 

“Hey,” Gavin exhales, shakily. “So, um, about last night...”


End file.
